No more swipe at the checkout

I love a news headline that will brighten a day. That will put a spring in my step. That will make me leap with joy for the little things — the teensy, weensy things.

The ones that make life worth living, as ridiculous or silly as they might seem. Like when I read that magnetic strips on credit cards are going away.

JOYYYYY!

To be replaced with embedded microchips. Visa is moving in that direction. The reason? Security, of course. But I could give a rotted melon about that. Nor the time saved or the convenience.

For me, the reason to switch — the ONLY reason — is quite simply this: no more embarrassment.

If you’re like me, those credit card strips have caused you quite a bit of embarrassment. If you’re like me, the strips look like they’ve been worked over by a jackhammer.

Because you know green horses will sing “Camelot” and fly before they work.

You know the shame of backing up a checkout line for miles while a fuming cashier tries to run your card. And you also know you should call for a new card … but you won’t. Because you can’t ... because the phone number on the back has also rubbed off.

So you’re doomed to shame … like me … until the microchips arrive.

My over-worked cards cause great distress and aggravation at the checkout.

The steam coming off cashiers could cook carrots. At first they’re gentle, and even amused, as they swipe the reluctant card. “Ha, ha. Not working, eh?” they say, casually giving it a couple of swipes. They say it with a smile, like they have never been beaten by a card and know it’s all in the wrist.

I cringe like a kid who has to go to the bathroom and give an awkward smile. I know where this is going.

Suddenly they look like someone trying to run lumber through a deli slicer. Straining. Grimacing. Every muscle in their body taut as they try again and again. Most cashiers spontaneously combust right there. Shame or over-exertion ... I don’t know.

The ones who survive ask for another card. This dooms them, too. Little do they know, the strips on my other cards are even worse.

People behind me wonder why I can’t just be declined for insufficient funds like normal people. Or they offer tips: Try blowing on it. Rub it on a pickle. Pray to Jesus!

Cashiers like to try tricks, too, like the plastic bag trick. This is when they take out a plastic bag, wrap your card in it and then swipe.

I hate this. You can have all the money in the world. You could have a chauffeur named Mr. Potts in a Rolls Royce waiting outside for you. You could be wearing gold-lined underwear, but the minute your card goes in a plastic bag, you feel lower than an Arkansas dirt farmer.

And, it doesn’t work.

In self-serve lines other customers stare at me like I’ve just crawled in from the Amazon. They offer to help in the kind of voice reserved for 3-year-olds: “OK, little guy ... hold on ... see? ... it’s like this ... a slow ... fluid ... swiping motion. That’s all.”

Five seconds later and they’re on the deli slicer cutting chunks of wood while screaming, “GO THROUGH, YOU #&%$#@&%!!!”

Then ... POP! They spontaneously combust.

I hate that magnetic strip. The kind of “hate” that is usually for enemies. For dictators. For evil, evil men. I hate when people ask, “Do you have cash instead?” Because would anyone subject themselves to this kind of punishment if they had cash!?!

I can’t wait to get a card with a chip inside. Then I can magically wave it over the machine, never having to swipe again. How beautiful it will be. How exciting.

So exciting I’m ready to call and order one right now ... if only the phone number hadn’t rubbed off the back.